Overdose
by asdamnedastheycome
Summary: Sherlock returns home to a scathing friend and a dreamless future. What will the weeks tell for him as the clock ticks down? CURRENTLY ON HIATUS
1. Choice

Chapter 1: Choice

He detected early the tragedy that the human brain, with all its capacity, gets clouded with a never ending flood of bodily needs and emotions. How perfect it would be if he could overcome one of those. He sat at the table, the chestnut wood shining in the harsh fluorescent lights. Two bottles sat before him. The only difference is that he was alone. Always alone. No John to save him, to shoot through the window and stop whoever was challenging him. No one. Absolutely alone.

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."

The words rang through his mind. They did no good now. All those years, alone, on a solo mission, fighting for the right to see his John again. Then the worst had happened. John had reacted with venom and anger.

"Get out. I can't forgive you. You're dead to me."

He had stumbled out of Baker Street, dazed and confused. That was three days ago. He knew he had nothing else to live for. He had cut all ties after The Fall. He had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. After all, he was alone. Always alone. He had never been any other way. It was a life, yes, but the worst kind, the kind that forages for scraps of kindness. "Now I choose." He breathed.


	2. Cathartic

Chapter 2: Cathartic

He shuffled the bottles, pondering the choices of life and death. One of the bottles let him lead on his miserable ways, the other would deliver a dose of cocaine so high he would never wake up. He closed his eyes, fully prepared to die. He grabbed at the bottles, finally snatching one. He looked at the bottle, held it up to the light, sniffed at it. He uncapped it shook around its only dose. He took out the pill, giving it one last once-over before swallowing it in a single go. Within minutes, he began to feel an odd buzzing sensation, one that he was familiar with. He knew what pill he had gotten now. He had chosen death. And now death would catch up with him. He felt oddly at peace with this. This feeling, this cathartic flush of happiness went through him. He knew this would be the last emotion he ever felt. He had studied cocaine overdose, he knew he would slip into a coma before finally passing. He slipped off his chair, limp body slamming into the cold, hard flooring. Someone came through the door, obviously startled by the noise his falling body made. The person ran out, terrified.

"Police? Yes, a problem. There's a body!"


	3. Informant

Chapter 3: Informant

John knew what he had done was wrong. He had rebuked Sherlock cruelly, and now he was going to pay for it. It had been three days since he'd kicked Sherlock out of the flat, and he had been filled with regret every second since. He had been furious, and rightly so. But he had turned away Sherlock when he needed him the most. He had failed him as a friend. He sat in his chair, guilt running over him in waves. His phone buzzed. He needed absolute silence badly. His phone buzzed again. He picked it up, looking at his messages. There were two from Lestrade. The first one:

John, I have news to break to you. It's bad. Come to Scotland Yard quickly. –GL

The second:

John, it's about Sherlock. Get down here now. –GL

John grabbed his jacket and ran out the door. He got into a cab with lightning speed.

"Scotland Yard. Double fare if you can get me there in under 10 minutes."

The cab peeled out with a screech, racing down Baker Street fast enough to leave tread marks. About 7 minutes later, John stood in front of NSY. Lestrade was waiting out front.

"I have to be blunt. Sherlock overdosed in an abandoned community college. He's still breathing. Just barely."


	4. Visit

Chapter 4: Visit

John sat down hard. He had thought Sherlock would just leave. But not this. Never this. He had possibly just lost his best friend in the world. His only friend in the world. He knew Sherlock had done it because of him. He was paying the price for his cruelty. He looked up at Lestrade.

"Where is he?" he croaked.

"At Bart's. Do you need a ride?" Lestrade replied.

He nodded. Lestrade opened the car door and let John in. Lestrade got into the drivers seat and peeled out. The car crawled through London traffic. It took all John's willpower not to reach over with his foot and slam on the gas. They finally got to St. Bart's about an hour later. John ran inside.

"How can I help you?" the receptionist chirped.

"I need to see Sherlock Holmes." John said shakily.

"He'll be up in room 221." She said.

"Thank you." John said.

He took the stairs two at a time, arriving at Sherlock's room in 30 seconds flat. When he walked in, the sight was unnerving. Sherlock lay on the bed, heart beating but no sign of consciousness. John recognized this as a coma. "Oh god, Sherlock!" John cried, rushing to the bed. The doctor walked in. Jon paid no attention. He made sure Sherlock stil breathed.


	5. Breathe

Chapter 5: Breathe

The doctor interrupted John with a cough.

"Sir, are you a relative?" the doctor asked.

"No." John replied.

"A partner, then?" The doctor asked.

"Gods no. I'm his best friend. He doesn't really have any family that he gets along with." John said.

"Alright then. I'll just leave you two here." he said, slowly backing out of the room. John bent over Sherlock, looking on the form of his best and only friend.

"No Sherlock, you can't do this, wake up, wake up, wake UP!" He shouted this last word with such ferocity that it caught the attention of the nurse outside.

He paid no attention. One of the greatest minds in the world, the greatest, was sitting there in a coma, no movement, no sign of life except a heaving chest and a beeping monitor. He couldn't take it. He stormed out on the road, rage in his heart but no one to point it to. The only one who had caused this rage was in a damned coma. He sat in an empty alley, his head in his hands. When he got up, he saw the sun peaking over the buildings. 'Christ, how long have I been here?' He said to himself. He got up, sore knees grinding. He had to calm down. He had to just breathe.


	6. Beside

Chapter 6: Beside

John hailed a cab, sore joints rubbing painfully. He just couldn't believe the events of last night were real. They had seemed such a blur. But he knew it was real. '221 Baker Street.' He told the cabbie. He got there 30 minutes later. He packed up. He was going to stay with Sherlock until the very end. He couldn't bare the thought of not spending time with him, even if one of the two conversation partners was unconscious. He got what little he had and walked out of the flat. He hailed another cab and rode in silence to Bart's. As soon as he got there, he went up to Sherlock's room as fast as his legs would carry him. He bent over the younger man's bed, brushing his hair back from his face in a tender gesture. 'Sherlock, I need to say something to you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for the pain I've caused. I'm sorry for the guilt, the hurt, and the grief I've caused. I have regretted every word I said that night. Ever since. I just don't know what I'll do without you. I just can't imagine you...' John choked on the last word. 'Dead.' John sat down hard in the chair beside his bed. He sat just beside him, as always. Just right beside.


	7. Pink Slip

Chapter 7: Pink Slip

Lestrade was angry. First, he had the whole crisis with Sherlock, and second, Anderson had done something that would probably get him fired. He still didn't know what to do about Sherlock. The poor idiot had drugged himself into a coma. The likelihood of him coming out was slim. And Anderson had said something that had crossed the line. After the scene, Anderson had come up to John and said very nastily,

"Betcha he deserved it."

John had just walked away. Probably didn't want to get a warrant for punching an officer. However, an officer he would be no longer.

"Anderson, come to my office now." He said over the PA.

The sounds of cheap shoes squicked against the floor as Anderson arrived.

"Anderson, I'm firing you for disorderly conduct. Multiple charges." he said. Anderson hung his head. "And get out of my sight." He said seethingly.

Anderson left the room, looking dejected but relieved. Lestrade rolled his neck, popping it all round. He could not believe what had transpired in these past days. We lose Sherlock to drugs, and Anderson is gone for good. The good and the mediocre. Lestrade snickered to himself. He immediately straightened up when he saw Donovan in the doorframe.

"Sir, I have some developments on Sherlock." She said. Lestrade read the file. He still breathes.


	8. Burst

Chapter 8: Burst

As John sat there, he knew he had to consider the future. He knew Sherlock couldn't sit here indefinitely, collecting dust and medical bills. He would have to make a decision, sooner or later. He couldn't cling to him, no matter how much he wanted to. He'd have to settle the decision with the hospital for the bills. And he knew that he would never get to properly talk to Sherlock again. Ever again. The last words he had told him were words of loathing and hate, of grief and pain. Overrun by a fresh wave of guilt, he sprung away from Sherlock's bed and ran to the men's across the hall. He huddled in a stall, silent tears running down his face. Thoughts of all the horrid things he had done and said to Sherlock over the years flashed one by one through his mind, each one fresh with pain like a red hot poker. He scrunched himself up into a ball, trying to will away the waves of emotion riding his thought processes. They went away after an hour. What they left behind was even worse. They had left behind a dark pit of doubt and worry. The feeling began to eat him from the inside out, chomping at his esteem until he felt like he would burst. Simply burst.


	9. Stained

Chapter 9: Stained

John knew he had to leave at some point. He couldn't sit there on the floor crying forever. He pulled himself up, his back aching from sitting like that for the second time in two days. His legs shook as he got himself standing. His joints popped and his bones creaked but he could care less. He made his way over to Sherlock's room slowly, taking his time. Even with the fact that there wasn't much time at all. He knew as such. He had no clue how he was going to cope with this. Absolutely no fucking clue. He had dealt with death and destruction in the army, but this was something different. This was stained, stained with grief and guilt and shame so overwhelming that it made him feel as if he would sink into a pit of despair so deep that he could never climb out. He had taken grief classes after his service, but the deaths of his comrades still ate away at his psyche. Stevens, blown away by enemy fire. Harrison, blasted by an IED. Wiggins, dead with disease that he couldn't stop. Many, many others. These men stained his conscience, kept him up at night wondering if he could have saved them. Now there was going to be a new one. The great Sherlock Holmes. Bloody bastard.


	10. Blackout

Chapter 10: Blackout

Beep. Beep. Beep. The heart monitor lugged on, persistently recording the man's heartbeats. Every single one. It would continue to do so. It would until there was nothing to record. Those beats were the reason he was still here. Sarah had given him time off. She understood. She knew he had to spend every last waking moment near the friend that he lost. No. Not lost. He's still here. Just barely. He sat down in the chair next to Sherlock's bed, gaze falling upon the pale man as he lay, devoid of thought and emotion. Beep. Beep. Beep. He didn't know a thing about this. What had he gone through in his time far away? Certainly not to bloody fairyland. He sniggered, then went quiet again. He just sat there, still as a statue, unmoving, watching his friend's chest rise and fall, over again and again. Up. Down. Up. Down.

"Um, sir?" A nurse leaned into the room.

"Visiting hours are over." John got up and planted a kiss on the younger man's forehead.

"See you tomorrow." he whispered.

He gathered his belongings and made his way down the stairs. He grabbed a cot and found a room in the ward. He rolled around, finding no comfort in sleep. He knew it was going to be rough. He closed his eyes. Blackout.


	11. Nothing

**A/N: OMG OVER 2,000 VIEWS ON THIS STORY THANKS GUYS**

Chapter 11: Nothing

When he woke, he knew he felt no better. Sleep was no cure for him, no escape, no solace from the problems of reality. The cot creaked as he rose, all optimism draining along with the scent of disinfectant. He made his way to Sherlock's room, bumping into a couple of physicians along the way. They turned back and glared at him, but he didn't care. He sat down beside him, leading a silent vigil meant for only one. At least, he did until the last person he wanted to see walked into the room.

"Mycroft." He growled.

"John." Mycroft said, in that snakily insidious voice of his.

"Who the HELL gave you the right to be here?" He blustered.

"I _am_ his family," Mycroft said. "So I would believe that I have more of a right to see him than you do."

"Excuse me?" John nearly slapped him. "I have been more of a family to him than you ever have. You left him, left him alone and now look what it's come to. Your own brother, lying nearly dead in the hospital and you don't even care." He said through his teeth. Mycroft tried to stop him, but he was a verbal freight train. "Mycroft Holmes, don't you dare correct me. You are less than nothing to him." He bellowed.


	12. Breach

**A/N: Sorry about that mess on Wednesday! Here is the ****_better_**** chapter 12.**

Chapter 12: Breach

Mycroft slunk out of the room, metaphorical tail between his legs. John sighed. He had forgotten that that _monstrosity_ would think to check in. Not like he actually expected it to happen. He sat down hard. He had to get his affairs in order. He called into work.

"Sarah?" he asked.

"Here." she said.

"I can't be at work the next couple of days." he said. "I've got a problem with... him. Can you cover me?"

"Sure. Though I thought you should know something." she said.

"What?" he said.

"Someone leaked it to the press. Get ready to lose all peace and quiet." she said. "I expect at least ten articles by morn and four news reports."

He simply said, "Oh shit." and hung up.

He put his head in his hands. What would he do now? No more of what he had been doing of course. Damn the press! He stalked out of the room, fully ready to hire six, seven bodyguards if need be. That was unnecessary. He found Lestrade by the door.

"I've set up men around the perimeter. You'll be good until we have a breach. Then it could get ugly." he said to John, briefing him just like his old commanding officer. Just then a man in a riot police uniform came up.

"Help! There's a breach!"


	13. Siege

Chapter 13: Siege

All of a sudden, people began to press against the doors, banging, trying to find a way in.

Lestrade yelled, "Get to the entrances and exits! Guard them well, or this will go up in flames!"

Police dashed to the entrances, locking the doors, pressing themselves against the onslaught. He walked up to the door. The person leading the free press brigade, or so it seemed, was none other than the venomous Kitty Riley herself. She pressed up against the door, yelling,"The people have a right to know! Let us in!" She took up a chant, screaming,

"Right to know! Right to know!"

He backed away from the door, turning and running. He ran all the way up, up and up the stairs, until he reached the rooftop. He went to the edge and looked over.

"Jesus Christ." he muttered. "That's no press junket. This is a siege."

Hordes of people surrounded the hospital, chanting the words that spelled chaos for him and death for Sherlock. Alongside of the reporters, he saw ordinary citizens, all jostling each other for a glimpse of the once-dead king. Even more disturbing, he saw men and women slinking around the edges of the crowd, suspiciously taking in everything. That can't be good. And the last of his privacy and security went out of the window as someone looked up. Someone screamed. Another just sat and laughed.


	14. Invasion

Chapter 14: Invasion

He ran from the edge quickly, just as more people began to see him and the disaster that he was. He ran to the stairwell and closed the door, panting from exhaustion. He took a moment to ponder the deep pile of shit he was in. Besieged, beleaguered, and nearly buried with grief, stuck in a hospital he could never leave. And he laughed. Laughed in the face of danger, of suffering, of rage. Thank god he had grabbed his stuff. He hauled ass to the second floor. He went to his room, grabbed his duffel, and went to Sherlock's room. He set up the cot in there, side by side. Always side by side. As soon as he was done, he went downstairs, only to find his worst nightmare come to life. Kitty Riley had gotten through the doors. She was pestering the staff with questions, and as soon as she saw him, she pounced.

"Can you tell us what happened? How are you feeling? What's next?" she rapid-fired at him, not missing a beat. She whipped out a pen, ready to jot down the information she wouldn't be getting.

"My answer to you is no. I will not subject to your questions. Good day, bitch." he shot back at her. He didn't miss the flabbergasted look on her face as he tromped up the stairs, shoes banging.


End file.
